


They come for the skin, they come to boots

by CureIcy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Episode: e101 Another Twist (The Magnus Archives), Gen, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Needs a Hug, Missing Scene, buried coffin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25112203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CureIcy/pseuds/CureIcy
Summary: Statement of Ella Smith, regarding a pair of men buying skincare products at the Boots where she worked. Statement given June 4th, 2017, direct from subject. Statement recorded by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute. Statement begins.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	They come for the skin, they come to boots

**Author's Note:**

> loosely based on this post, and the idea that when they say they need to be near the coffin, they mean they can’t go shopping and leave it in the van.
> 
> https://rejectedtmastatements.tumblr.com/post/190828178103/statement-of-ella-smith-regarding-two-large-men#notes

**[The Archivist]**

Statement of Ella Smith, regarding…

**[Ella Smith]**

A pair of strange men in overalls, at the Boots where I work. They were carrying a coffin.

[muffled swearing from the Archivist]

**[Ella Smith]**

Um, excuse me? Is that bad?

**[The Archivist]**

You could say that. [attempt at a calming breath] Right. Statement given June 4th, 2017, direct from subject. Statement recorded by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute. Statement begins.

[long silence]

**[The Archivist]**

Miss Smith?

**[Ella Smith]**

Oh, do I— right. I first saw them walking in when I was restocking the front section. They were hard to miss, around six feet tall, and the one in back was carrying a massive black coffin wrapped in chains. There was dirt spilling out, and I wondered if maybe they’d just dug it up from somewhere. But why would a pair of grave robbers go walking into a store full of cameras and not even try to hide what they were doing? That’s what I told myself, but I didn’t feel much better. I kept at it, but I couldn’t help but stare.

They were talking about someone; I’m afraid I don’t know who, but I got the impression that whoever it was, they were very unlucky indeed. One of them held up a vegetable peeler with the tag still on, and both of them started laughing hysterically, saying, “what if she peeled ‘im with this!” in very thick cockney accents.

I started getting nervous. I moved to the side and did my best to look busy, and thankfully the two of them passed me by.

I asked my shift manager, Nolan, about it, but he just said as long as they weren’t bringing merchandise into the restrooms or harassing anyone, there was nothing he could do. I told him that they were literally bringing a coffin into the store, and I was fairly certain I’d heard it screaming faintly at some point, but his response was to tell David to come in and clean up the dirt spilling from it once the two customers were gone. I swear, everyone here is either apathetic, spiteful, or full of rage. I had half an hour left in my shift, so I started helping customers in the gardening section, most of whom were looking for highly specialized products that you can’t find here. One woman insisted that we had some cream I’d never even heard of, and kept telling me that I was wrong when I showed her we didn’t have it. It was exhausting, certainly, but didn’t fill me with existential dread. 

Until, of course, I ran into the pair again, and they asked me for directions.

They finished each other’s sentences, as if there was only one voice that they passed between them. It was dizzying to keep track of it, so I ended up staring at their overalls so I wouldn’t look at their faces. Breekon and Hope, they read.

They said they had some skin that needed caring for. That _exact_ phrasing. Ominous, I know, but frankly I was too scared to question it. I pointed them in the direction, and the one carrying the coffin grinned in a way that made me think I had made a horrible mistake, although I couldn’t say what it was.

I decided, in a moment that proved how utterly retail had destroyed my lack of self preservation, that I should watch them. And so I crouched behind a shelf in the next aisle and peeked through the holes in the metal, watching them laugh and throw skincare products into a cart with reckless abandon. They hadn’t had the cart earlier, I know, and there was a teenage girl with a thick layer of gauze wrapped around her arm and a nervous disposition stuttering quietly at them, asking for her cart back. They ignored her, and after another moment or so, she walked away, presumably to get another cart. Breekon and Hope had abruptly switched languages to Russian, and I couldn’t help but feel threatened.

I know what people say, that some languages just sound a certain way no matter what’s being said. That French is just fancier, and it sounds vaguely ominous and angry even when a German says “Meine Kätzchen ist sehr süß” oder “ich habe dich lieb.” But this wasn’t it. I don’t know what it is, really. I don’t speak Russian by any stretch of the imagination, but I gave learning it a try in my youth, and I still knew enough to pick out a couple of phrases. Something about skin, and a circus? I heard the name Orsinov as well. I assumed they’d switched in order to prevent eavesdropping, so they must have been up to something really sketchy. Either one could have easily snapped my neck, though, so I figured I’d gather what evidence I could and give it to someone who was trained to handle them. I’m not a fighter, I’m an English major, and this was beyond my pay grade.

That’s when I knocked a box of band-aids from the shelf by accident, and gave away my position. They looked at me, and I was seized with the sudden terror that they didn’t care if I lived or died, that this was just a game to them. I consider myself to have good intuition, and it’s saved me from a couple of bad dates before. I don’t mean just disastrous, I mean ones that would have had me sitting opposite a predator. I’ve been called rude and flaky, but quite frankly I’d rather have that reputation and stay safe. It was this same instinct that overwhelmed me then, and I’m ashamed to say I ran to the other side of the store. Just eleven minutes left in my shift, and then I could go home and sit on the couch with my cat and forget all about this.

Of course, that’s when Priscilla breezed out the door, cheerfully informing me that I had volunteered to cover her shift on the way out. She was gone before I could protest, and Nolan just told me to file a complaint with HR and restock the soap.

At that point, I told him I was quitting. He asked for two weeks notice, and I asked him how badly he wanted to keep his position, since I had evidence of him smoking weed on his breaks. He gave a long sigh and pointed towards the door, informing me that I’d given my leave two weeks ago and he’d forgotten to file it. I applied as a waitress at a cute little café a couple blocks from my house, and tried to put it out of my mind, until I heard of your institute. So here I am.

Annie Simmons said there had been a fuss at register eleven because those two and their coffin had taken the express lane, despite having hundreds of items. No one was brave enough to confront them, though. Everyone who tried barely got a sentence in before leaving. They tried to pay using a gold coin that looked like it belonged in a museum, but Annie wouldn’t touch it, said it was cursed. Normally I’d say she was just being superstitious as usual; I’m not one to firmly believe in the supernatural, but I know to trust my instincts, and they were screaming at me. I don’t know who they were, but I’m done working retail. If that’s all, I’ll be leaving.

**[The Archivist]**

Y-yes. Thank you, Miss Smith. Statement ends.

[tape clicks off]

***

**[The Archivist]**

Supplemental: I..suppose there’s not much to say here. I know the context. But...a vegetable peeler?

[dull thud, followed by a strained wheezing sound]

What the hell. Why is this my life. _End. Supplemental._

[recorder clicks off]

***

[muffled screams of frustration as Jon cries and yells into his pillow]

[shifting of fabric]

[pause; the recorder is picked up, and Jon sighs.]

**[The Archivist]**

Where did you come from? Oh, you just love recording all of my misery, don’t you? Why don’t you just f--

[tape recorder clicks off]

**Author's Note:**

> Jon is amusing to torment. And I changed the store location from Boots to Walmart simply because I haven’t heard of Boots and can’t imagine these two have heard of it, either.  
> Edit: changed it back, forgot that cultural differences are still a thing when you speak the same language. Sorry y'all; I'm american. I'll learn.


End file.
